Lt Michael Kenmore: Patient Number 4364
by Port-of-Seas
Summary: PreMichael. What was going through 'Michael's' mind as he slowly transformed from Wraith to human? The two weeks of experimentation, as told by patient 4364.
1. Day One

Disclaimer: I wish I could own Stargate Atlantis, the character of Michael, or even Connor Trinneer. That would make me very rich or very popular… but alas I don't.

Author's note: Okay, this is chapter one of those two weeks before the episode of "Michael" I adored Connor Trinneer from Enterprise, and was delighted by his performance as Michael. I've always been a bit of a wraith sympathizer (and mourned the death of Steve) therefore, I wanted to go more into this particular character, who was exactly what I wanted to see in this series. Expect 13 or 14 chapters.

Chapter 1: Day 1

"Strap him down for the love of-"

"_Working on it_, Carson!"

I fight the two humans with what strength remains in me, roaring in protest.

"You will die for this!" I cry out as the dark-skinned man digs his fingers into the flesh of my arms in a futile attempt to restrain me. "Others will come for me! They will destroy you!"

The smaller human, Sheppard of Earth, snarls and shoves roughly, mocking me.

"Blah blah blah."

"They're gonna have to find us first!" the other insists. It is he who captured me. I scream in fury, wishing to kill now for vengeance rather than the need for sustenance. The memories was to the front of my mind, loud and unsettling as the waves that crash against the docks of this loathesome city.

I had been alone, on a mission. It was only a minor culling with a simple goal; capture the stronger, more youthful products of one village and transport them to my hive ship. To feed my colony. With the growing hunger among my race-the greater competition- it was vital…

_Damn_ these fools! It was _they_ who had awoken us; _they _who had sent us into this civil war for food and power.

The pain shat had shaken my frame when my dart was shot down still throbbed within me as I stumbled out, searching for the Stargate. Blasts came from behind, paralyzing me as they shot again and again, debilitating me. I struggled with all my might, but the formidable human had defeated me. He would surely have broken both my legs-the feral look in his eyes was so powerful that he himself might have been one of my own-had a voice not rung out through the air, commanding that I be left unharmed. It was all I could gather in my disbelief that she was female before I was subdued and cast into their ship.

Why hadn't they killed me? What could they possibly be planning?

"You're gonna need a name," Sheppard says, seizing my wrist despite my effortsand binding it to the bedside. "How does Mike sound?"

I fight my restraints, screeching in rage, cursing their vile carcasses. Demeaning me! Taunting me with pet names and human lebels. A light shines in my face and I hiss, lurching forward as they restrain my other wrist. A recording… they are recording me!

"Smile for the camera, Mikey-boy!" Sheppard crows, grabbing my head and shoving it roughly down onto the bed. I savagely attempt to bite him, but to no avail.

"Colonel!" another man yells.

"He's down!" Sheppard replies. I writhe under the humans' grasps, struggling despite my prone position. A man appears in a white coat, foreign and fitting in uncommonly well with the alien setting of the room. In his hand he grasps a syringe surely, his thumb resting on the plunger in anticipation. My helpless struggles suddenly seem hopelessly futile, and as I wrench at my restraints, they cut deeply into my wrists and ankles.

"Whatever you do to me, my brethren will see to it that you suffer a thousand times in return," I snarl. The man with the syringe tries to jab me, but I jerk away, fueled by anger, still lurching too much to be injected with whatever foul poison he has planned for me. My every movement is fueled by sheer wrath.

"Ronon, hold him still," he commands, and the formidable one falls on me, staying my movement as much as he was able with his heavy arms.

"What are you doing?" I demand. "Release me or you shall die for this insolence!"

"Well, maybe in time you'll come to see how we feel," Sheppard remarks.

Before I am able to say anything, a sharp sting bites into my neck as some foreign substance seeps into my blood, burning as it goes. Pain as I have never known suddenly takes me, tearing through my body's defenses like acid.

I let out a wail of agony, shutting my eyes against the bright alien lights. It feels as though the very core of my being has been violated. I try to grasp my head, my stomach, my shoulders in an instinctive move for self comfort, but my restraints won't even allow me that.

"Retrovirus successfully administered," the man with the syringe says, his voice booming in my head like a thousand explosions. They were reporting on this… they were recording my pain!

I roar in utter anguish, but the suffering pain intensifies, blurring out reality. My stomach heaves, my muscles quiver, a thin layer of perspiration has begun to coat my pale skin, but there is nothing I can do but accept it.

With my last conscious breath, I hiss angrily.

"You will all die."

o-o-o-o

With all due respect, please review and review honestly.


	2. Day Two

Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate Atlantis yet, but once that babysitting money comes in I plan to buy out the show.

Author's Note: This chapter was fun. I decided to add a ticking clock to add to his irritation because, honestly, what's more annoying than a loud clock while you're feeling sick and have a headache? I have to admit, I paid a good deal more attention to this story than I did to Geometry, but oh well. I was also glad to bring in Cadman for just a tad (she's a particularly fun character) and I hope to do more with her. Anyway, here's Chapter 2. Please enjoy!

Chapter 2: Day Two

I wake to a dismal silence, my whole body still shivering with the aftershock of yesterday. The eerie feeling that has descended upon me is strange and foreign. Something is different about me, and it frightens me. But I cannot allow my captors to see this.

A muffled _tick _sounds in my ears, as though from underwater. I wince, furrowing my brows as each soft sound pounds my head from within. These feelings of disrepair are unfamiliar to me. My kind are seldom ill, and when they are, they are either killed or locked away on their own, in silence, until they recover.

The ticking grows louder, clearer, and more agonizing with eash passing moment. I moan softly, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps as consciousness returns to me.

"He's awake," a piercing tenor voice-the white coated man from yesterday-echoes through my head. I hiss, silently willing the human to know my pain. A light shines on my face, permeating my lids. I snarl and writhe under the hateful glare.

"I take it you're not a morning person, Mike." Sheppard's voice is by far the most despicable sound yet to assail my senses. The other man shushes him quickly, and that wretched light no longer shines in my face.

"Michael," he says. I snort derisively. It would seem that that insipid title has spread. "I need you to open your eyes for an examination."

I spit a Wraith curse, squeezing my eyes together all the more tightly. It does help somewhat to lessen the intensity of the room's light, which helps my head somewhat.

"If you'd like, Carson, I could help," Sheppard volunteers. I sneer, gnashingmy teeth together. When I escape from this place, I will see to it that _he_ be the first I feed upon.

"Please," the man-Carson apparently- says softly. I cannot say that I am ungrateful that he has hushed his booming voice somewhat. "I need to perform an examination. You won't have to move, but it's vital that you let me give you a good looking-over."

I want to protest, but the pain is simply too great to allow it. I crack open my eyes, wincing as they are flooded with light and shutting them again with a hiss. The doctor saus something I don't bother to discern, and the room dims somewhat. I hesitate and open my eyes again. The room is darker now, and though my vision is blurred, I notice the shapes around me. The white one must be the doctor; that much is obvious. There is something oddly passive and still about it know. No trembling nurses or yelling soldiers. Only that aggravating _tick._

I feel very small, even now in the presence of these lowly Atlanteans.

The doctor takes one set of my lids with a sturdy hand, forcing them open wide. Before I can protest, he brings up a small cylinder and clicks the end. Light, bright as a thousand stars, flashes in my now sensitive eyes. I scream in pain, jerking back and shutting my eyes against the tears.

Tears? Why do they come so easily now?

"Release me!" I bellow, my eyes flying open despite themselves, and for a moment my heart leaps. I am blind! The entire room is but a black void before me, and I am struck with the queer sense that in my panic, it will suck me in.

"Well, a right smart idea that would be!" the doctor insists indignantly. "Especially in your condition."

I swivel my head in his direction, staring almost blindly as dark shaps begin to form once more.

"What have you don't to me?" I snarl, my ire rising. Distantly, the odd ticking goes on, now frightfully monotonous.

"Something a great deal more humane than what you've done to us!" the doctor replies defensively. His confession seems to cause my pain to only intensify, and it is all I can do to stop myself from howling in outrage. These human! They believe themselves to be so righteous, so divine! They hide their own actions between morals and kind words. They are too weak to admit they are at fault.

And it is those guilty people who are experimenting on me.

"Humane," I echo him, snarling and forming a condescending smirk despite my pain. "You fools believe that to be such a noble thing."

"I think you've said enough," Sheppard says. Through the dark haze, I see him raise his weapon, but the doctor waves frantically for him to lower it. I laugh, the gutteral sound aching in my throat as I roll my head back onto its previous position on the pillow. I close my eyes, willing restful oblivion to take me.

The doctor scurries about my bed, taking samples and injecting several 'somethings' into my arm. For now, I am too spent to object.

"I'm giving you a sedative," he says, but his voice is too distant for me to discern and reason from his words.

o-o-o-o

"Oh, come on, Carson," a feminine voice echoes. "How would you like it if I constantly referred to you as Doctor Beckett all the time?"

"It wouldn't bother me," the doctor replied reproachfully, though his tone held a level of mirth. "I mean, everyone else does."

"Well, I'm Laura, remember?' the woman laughs. "Not 'Lieutenant Cadman', at least, not around you."

I crack open my eyes. Rather than that infuriating _tick_, it is their conversation that wakes me now. Somehow, I preferred the former. At least that gave me a source upon which I could focus my insatiable fury. The doctor and the Lieutenant went on, talking about dinner and sunsets and other disgustingly petty things that seemed to amuse them. Suddenly, the woman's head-nothing more than a golden blue-jerked in my direction.

"Your friend's up," she reported, nodding in my direction. Fascinating how her voice could go from playful to solemn in just a few short words. The doctor-Beckett I assume-turns and hurries over to my side. The woman leaves; I assume she would prefer that she not see her supposed lover tending to a sick Wraith. Or it could be that she doesn't want to see him experimenting on a sick Wraith.

It doesn't matter. Their race is more perverse than hey will admit.

The irritating _tick_ has become audible now without their foolish conversation to distract me. Exasperated, I growl deep within my throat, narrowing my eyes to slits.

"Being angry at me isn't going to help, you know," Beckett insists, drawing a syringe and a bottle of opaque yellow liquid. I try to focus on it, but it is of no use. My vision is still too out of focus, and each time I try to focus, my head throbs with a fury.

"What is that sound?" I demand. Beckett draws back, and though I cannot see his face, I guess it to be etched with a look of definite confusion.

"Excuse me?" he sputters. I lurch weakly against my bindings, jerking my head sharply in the direction of the ticking. Beckett glances around for a few moments; He must be so used to the sound that he no longer notices it. After a few moments, he seems to decide he had found it.

"The clock?" he suggests. I growl again, tempted to try to snap at him, but knowing it would be of no use.

"Remove it!" I spit. The doctor rushes over in the direction of the sound, but rather than remove it, he bends over a counter and begins writing something.

"Hypersensitivity to sound, still a 'yes'" he mutters to himself, his pen flying over a piece of paper. "Hypersensitivity to light, reduced since this morning."

I cry out in protest. How dare he prolong that which causes me pain, being perfectly aware of my discomfort. Beckett turns around and stares at me for a few moments. I believe he might just allow it to continue, just to see what might happen. But after a few seconds, he reaches up and pulls something off the wall and, in one swift movement, silences the infernal ticking.

The pain in my head does not recede, but neither does it grow in strength.

"Now," he says in a businesslike tone. "Back to work. I'll have to take a few more samples, run a few more tests."

No matter how I struggle that day, I cannot fight him off. And for now, I don't believe it's worth it. Bide my time, gain my strength. Plot my revenge. Find solace in the emptying silence of this horrible place.

When the pain finally overcomes me, I welcome the oblivion of sleep with open arms.

o-o-o-o

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Thank you to all those who reviewed! It really brightens my day when people take the time to tell me what they think. Well, until the next day. And on a further note: How hard is it to press a blue button, bring up a box, and rant about what you just read? Ranting... Reviewing... both start with 'R's


	3. Day Three

Disclaimer: Naw, SGA isn't mine. Only the annoying clock from the previous chapter is.

Author's Note: At long last, the chapter where Michael finally finds out what's happening to him. This has got to be the most sympathetic chapter yet, and I adored writing it.

**Important: I will be out of town for the next week, so my regular posting dates (of twice a week) will be seriously postponed. The best advice for waiting that I can offer is to spread this story around, and find as many reviewers as possible. I might not make the week go faster, but isn't it nice to drag someone into your pain?**

Chapter 3: Day Three

I am still in this place. I don't know why I could have possibly imagined I would be anywhere else when I awoke this time. Humans didn't simply capture you, experiment on you, and then release you back to your own hive ship. And this nightmare couldn't possibly have been a fantasy formed of my own imagination. Perhaps it is only because I seem to be asleep more than awake now.

The sickening feeling has left me somewhat, but it is still there. What is wrong with me?

Beckett is working on something on the other side of the room. I still cannot focus well, but I am able to discern more today than yesterday. His skin is pale, his hair dark and scruffy in comparison-not unlike a female or a child whose hair has not yet changed its color. I begin to push the thought from my mind but stop myself. No… I might as well allow myself to think of my hive ship. It will bring me hope that more will come for me.

Though how they will find me, with out link stretched so thin, I do not know. If it is my own who find me, then I will be saved. If it is any other ship, then there is a likely chance that they will simply kill me as a weakling or an enemy.

And yet, death does not seem so terrible now that I think of it. I have taken so many lives, seen so much horror, that a part of me has grown hard in the wake of terror. Killing a human no longer frightens or bothers me terribly. Perhaps my own death will be little different.

No! It's not yet time for such thoughts… if an enemy Hive ship came upon me at this moment and killed me, they would be right to do so. Three days with these people and already I am wishing for death to take me. I am a coward.

"Release me," I hiss softly, glaring at the doctor. My voice is higher than usual, softer, but I ignore it, lying perfectly still on the bed. It is no use fighting these bindings; though my strength has returned, I am still too weak to come to any real use from struggles. Beckett turns around and immediately bolts out of his chair.

"Take it easy," he urges, holding up his hands. I am pleased to see that neither grasps a hated needle, but his uneasy demeanor angers me all the same. I pull at my restraints, glaring into his alien face.

"Release me, human, and be spared for the moment," I snarl, my voice deepening back to its usual gruff growl. The doctor shook his head, coming up to my side and analyzing the monitors and machines that had been crowded about me. Insolent humans.

"Why do you keep me here when you know my presence will only hasten your deaths?" I demand icily. Beckett glances down at me, a curious look in his dark eyes.

"I'm afraid you're wrong about that," he told me, turning back to one of the monitors and punching something into a keypad. "You're presence here will have quite the opposite effect if all goes well."

"And then what?" I demand, a smirk rising on my features. He's so close… if I could just allow him to continue coming this close to me for a few more days, I will surely have the strength to kill him then. "Will you execute me once your experiment is complete."

Beckett pauses, his whole form going rigid for a few moments. I have struck something he does not want to acknowledge. Mirthlessly, I allow a laugh to leave my lips.

"You humans are little better than frightened animals with someone else's borrowed technology."

"Would you shut it?" he snaps irritably. I smirk in amusement. It isn't like the doctor to allow frustration to take him. Beckett glances away and mutters, "You're already better off now than before anyway."

My smile fades. Better? How is _this_ possibly better than my true life? It's _better _to spend days bound to a foreign bed of thin, cold sheets? Better to bear with a strange and foreign pain, sleeping for relief, wishing for death?

Humans are no longer animals to me. They are monsters.

Fury begins to well once more within my chest. Arrogant, deceitful, loathesome maggots! I pitch forward, straining against my bonds, screaming in outrage, but it is not enough. It is never enough! I will have to change that!

I clench my fists together in rage, feeling my nails dig into my flesh. The pain only maddens me more and I am ready to strike out when I am struck.

My nails… this is not normal.

Eyes wide, I glance down at my hand. My hand… once a pale white-blue shade of perfection for my race. It is no longer so, but instead has taken on a darker, more tanned tone as perhaps a female who had spent far too much time outdoors. Shakily, I open my fist, my stomach heaving.

My palm is sticky from the red blood that coated it; blood drawn my puny, shortened nails that seem hugely incapable of causing such damage.

_Human…_ The word echoes in my mind, filthy, ugly, overpowering. I try to drive it away, try to draw up images of my ship in my panic. The scent of cobwebs, the dark corridors, the soft furs of my own bed, my pale-skinned brothers and sisters…

Human…human…human… 

My breath is coming in short, uneven gasps, my stomach knotting and stretching uncomfortably. My body trembles, then goes tense with fear, then trembles again. I turn wild, furious eyes on the doctor, my rage now turned into a frenzied wrath.

"What have you done to me?" I demand, my whole body taut, preparing to lunge at him. The doctor looks at me, eyes wide with anxiety and pity. I take a quick, labored gasp and jump as far as I can toward him, the wretched bindings holding me back with a sharp sting.

"_What have you done to me?_" I roar, fighting against my bonds as a maddened beast. The human does not answer, though through my haze of fury I see his jaw clench, that unknown emotion clouding his face. He takes a few hesitant steps backwards, and I lunge again, damning this whole city to a painful death.

"Answer me!" I scream, but the doctor only turns his back and walks quickly toward the exit. I flail wildly, cursing him in my own tongue, which I can no longer speak properly.

"Fool!" I bellow madly. "Release me! You will all die at the hands of the Wraith for what you have done to me!"

The doctor does not heed my words, but leaves the room, never once looking back at me. When I can no longer see his form, a team of military personnel barges into the room, several holding their weapons aloft. I do not say it aloud, but I silently challenge them to do it. Pull the trigger. Shoot me, kill me, stop this experiment for good!

Several hands grab me and push me down again, struggling to still my writhing form as I scream out in fury and pain and defilement. Meaningless words are exchanged, orders thrown about as I pitch forward, swearing their imminent suffering to be as great as mine and then again!

A nurse, frighten and hurried, dashed up with several needles, trembling like a field mouse. She draws near and I try to lash out. Though I cannot touch her, she jumps back in fear, her eyes wide. One of the soldiers takes the needles from her and, thrusts the first one-containing the opaque yellow fluid-into my arm.

I scream in fury, commanding them to stop, but they ignore me. That horrible alien feeling is beginning to take hold of me all the stronger, and in my panic I find that I am utterly lost.

Another needle bites my arm and draws back. I yell in fury, and most of the soldiers and the nurse back away, leaving only those who hold me down. My movements become sluggish. My vision blurs… I try to choke something out and find that I have already forgotten how to speak in the body.

I am losing consciousness again, but now I fear it. What else will happen to me while I hide from the world in slumber? What else will they do to me?

I truly am lost and, for perhaps the first time in my life, I am really, truly alone.

**o-o-o-o**

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Thank you for reviewing. Now I shall humbly ask that you press that tiny blue button and review some more!


	4. Day Four

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate, I just write about it.

Author's note: Wow, thank you again to everyone who reviewed! It really motivates me **hint hint **to go on. This is the chapter where Michael has his first encounter with Teyla, so it was an interesting one. I'm stopping the review replies for a while, though.

Chapter 4: Day Four 

I never took pleasure in killing humans. I derived no necessary joy from them; they were to me what cattle was to them. Unless the person was specifically callous or troublesome, I hardly cared to notice. What good was it to feel anything good or bad for a creature I was only going to steal life from?

I was not the only one who felt this way. Many of my kind are also careless in the consumption. As young ones, we have little exposure to humans, as are often hardened before our first cullings. Feeding is methodical, calculated in many cases. I cannot deny that there are those among us who do take pleasure in killing. Those who anticipate the fear of our victims, the screams of the humans before they are fed upon, the terror in the eyes of a man, woman, or child of that race before their lives are drained away.

But do not humans have similar minds among their own race? Sadists, rapists, murderers… can any human honestly deny that even their ancestors- their precious Lanteans- had such people among them? At least among us, those of such a mindset are seldom so quick to visit their unnaturally violent natures upon those of their own race.

I am allowing my mind to wander… Trying to justify my own victimized position; attempting to find some purpose behind this torture.

I awoke this morning to find my hair had been sheared off in the typical human fashion. This infuriated me, but as I lashed out at the doctor, my only response was another injection and drugging that does not appear to have knocked me out for long.

I seethe here now, glaring up at the loathesome ceiling, simply hating this place. My thoughts are crowded and disorganized; it is going to take me a lifetime to come to terms with what they have done to me. They have stolen my body, my very way of life… I fear my identity is slowly being lost in their efforts to change me.

I am given no meant of determining my new facial structure, and for that I am glad. I would surely lose all sense of self if, in my mind, I failed to see myself as a Wraith.

I truly detest the uncertainty that is overcoming me. The chance of rescue had been scarce from the moment of my capture. Being in Atlantis – the supposedly decimated city – my chance of being saved from this nightmare was all but nothing. Until now, though, I clung to the thought in a wild, desperate hope. But now what am I to do?

What if they do come? Even my own Hive will surely never recognize me. I struggle to quell my panic at the thought of my brethren falling upon this place and, in their fury, not recognize me at all.

It is with even greater fear that I imagine their feeding upon me. I close my eyes and swallow with difficulty. I have only ever been the offensive force in any attack on humans, raid or culling. But, after all these years of seeing their faces, hearing their screams… it is not difficult to assume that the process is very painful.

"Guess what I brought you, Michael!" Sheppard's voice is a disgusting to hear now as it ever has been. I crack open my eyes and glare in his general direction. Though I can no longer think of feeding upon him, there are still a dozen tortured I like to deem fitting enough to bring him to his knees. Tortures I can still see myself performing upon him, even if I no longer know what "myself" looks like.

"Your death, Sheppard, is the only worldly desire I believe you can supply," I snap. He cocks his head and smirks, fingering his sidearm.

"Good afternoon to you, too," he replies, stopping short of my bed. Behind him, I spy two forms; One is the formidable human, the hatred I feel for whom is almost equal to that of Sheppard. The other is but a female, dark of skin and firm of muscle. Under normal circumstances I would growl, warning them to keep their distance, but it does not come so easily in this form. I make do with grinding these flattened teeth together, glaring.

"Thank you, Colonel Sheppard," she says formally, nodding at him. "But I believe Ronon and I can take it from here."

The formidable one nods, crossing his arms as if to validate her statement. Sheppard appears reluctant, but nods in submission. He turns back to me, his face hardened in a mask of seriousness that is almost comical in comparison to the foolish bantering that usually comes from him. He is trying to intimidate me. He fails.

"They're not food, got it?" he says loudly and slowly, as though speaking to a child. I roll my eyes and curl my lip, glancing away. It shouldn't be necessary to remind him that, in this wretched body, I _cannot_ possibly feed upon them. And even supposing that I was still physically capable of feeding, I am restrained. Therefore, it makes no difference. I am certain he is mocking me, but it would be fruitless to respond to so simple a remark.

Sheppard glances at the two before turning and leaving, though I haven't a doubt that he is simply going to wait behind the door, listening for a reason to shoot me. I wonder sometimes if suffering a culling would be worth the pain if it meant he would die as well.

The female sits down on my bed and smiles congenially. I can only sneer in return. She has no business feigning friendship with me. As though catching her misjudgment, the female glances away, drawing my attention to the tray in her lap.

"I thought you might be hungry," she says, offering me a buttery roll from the tray. "It has been some time since you ate last, I am sure."

I say nothing. I recognize her voice as the same that 'rescued' me from the would-be attack during my capture. She must be enjoying this. To see he enemy reduced to a lowly state, weak, and at her mercy.

She falters, translating my silence as potentially hostile-which she should-, and tries a new tactic. After taking a bite of the roll herself, she offers it to me again, smiling and chewing in what humans must find to be a friendly manner. Her openness is entirely unnerving.

"It is quite good," she offers, as though trying to reassure me. I stare, grinding my teeth in distaste. My body recognizes the roll as nourishment; I am by no means a stranger to human food. Young eat it as an early form of sustenance, as do adults when it is absolutely necessary. But to accept it now would be to accept what they have done to me. I will not allow them such pleasure.

Rebelliously, my stomach growls in reply, sending hunger pains aching throughout my abdomen. I bite my cheek hard, savoring the sharp taste of blood as my teeth pierce the gummy inner layer. The female smiles knowingly, leaning in.

"If you need help," she begins, but I cut her off with a snort.

"Your pity will prove misplaced when my kind comes for you," I hiss. She draws back, her body tensing seemingly without her realizing it, for her face still holds that annoyingly serene expression. There is something off about her, something… open… I narrow my eyes, trying to discern this odd sense I am receiving from her. She sets the tray on the ground and sits up straight again. I notice with some relief that she no longer smiles at me.

"You must learn to adapt to these new ways of life," she urges, her thin fingers twining and untwining anxiously. "You are now a human, and it is vital that you learn to live as one."

A fire lights suddenly in my chest and I lunge against my restraints, my eyes wide wit fury. The female jumps off the bed, suddenly shaken beyond what her earlier calm would have suggested. That sadistic part of me that I never before considered suddenly finds a thrill in her fear, an odd satisfaction in her nervous uncertainty. Let her doubt her self-righteous words!

"If you ever accuse me of being human again," I roar in anger "I will see to it that your death is as painful as it can possibly be before your pathetic body can suffer no more."

She stands a few moments, her strength forbidding her to tremble outwardly. In one graceful movement, she sweeps up the tray, turning to leave. But she pauses halfway.

"I am lad to hear that you think for yourself, now," she says. "Rather than hiding behind the threats of your Hive."

My blood freezes as she leaves the room. The only sound that I can hear is the loud beat of her boots against the floor, and all I see is her muscular frame departing solemnly.

Twice now, she has accused me of being human, and despite my resolve…

I am beginning to wonder how true her accusations are.

The formidable human approaches me and, grabbing the neckline of my hospital habit, jerks me up painfully. My doubts are immediately forgotten in the unforgiving light of his dark eyes.

"If you ever so much as touch her," he says thinly, his voice careful to remain low and menacing. "It won't matter whether you're a Wraith or a an, or even if your entire Hive ship is on the way. If you hurt Teyla, or any of my team, all those threats you've been making will seem like nothing compared to what I will do to you."

I glare into his face, my lips curling back to bare small, flat teeth I know not to be my own.

"If you are so frightened," I challenge, clenching my fists. "Then why not kill me now?"

He smiles, and a wicked gleam seems to ease into his features.

"Beckett wants you alive," he replies. "But once he's done with you…" he trails off, but I know enough to finish the sentence for myself.

"I will take pleasure in your death, also," I growl, lifting my chin and half-lidding my eyes. The human lets out a roar of outrage and shoves me onto the bed, turning and stalking out through the door to rejoin him companions. My body relaxes, alerting me to the fact that it had been tense at all. I settle into my pillows, glaring once more at the ceiling. He had neither killed me not released me in a desire to fight. It was disappointing.

My stomach growls again, painfully shocking me to the reality that I am hungry.

o-o-o-o

There you have it. Please review, though I doubt I should need to ask it at this point.


	5. Day Five

Disclaimer: Someday I might buy Connor Trineer's soul, and then at least part of this might belong to me…

Author's Note: Okay, for anyone who might be irritated with the long time it took to post, it's only HALF my fault! Fundraising, additional school practices, and the fact that I'm agonizing over what to type in chapter six slowed me down. But it's here now and, yes, so is Mckay. An additional apology for the sudden appearance of Captain Exposition and the recurring appearance of the word 'almost'.

Chapter 5: Day Five

The sharp sting in my hand is irritating beyond comprehension. The doctor tells me that it is for my own good. Because I refuse to degrade myself by consuming their food, this needle is supplying me with sustenance. It hardly sates my hunger, but that annoyingly instinctive hope for survival is momentarily satisfied. At least I am confident that I shall survive another day. I am too important to them to die, it seems.

They have sent a scientist team to interrogate me, but they are almost painfully ineffective. The plumper, more muscular of the two stammers and chatters on in a manner not unlike a rodent. I almost find it amusing, but it fails to cheer me. I find myself in a dismal fit of melancholy today, and event hr thought of irritating Sheppard cannot lift my mood.

The other man, like Beckett, has a unique accent to his voice that I have heard in no other. Where Beckett sounds like these others, but with a dancing lilt to his words, this man sounds more like a being whose tongue is trying to adapt to this language. Unlike the other scientist, he talks in quick, clipped statements. I do not believe this to be anything to do with his personal preference. It is difficult, I surmise, for him to say anything around the first scientist – McKay. But this does not change the fact that the two of them are anxious in my presence.

Despite my undeniable human appearance, they have not forgotten that I am a Wraith, and therefore to be feared. I find some comfort in the thought, and cling to it with an eager fervor.

I am not, by any means, to be considered human.

"Look, all I'm saying," McKay prattles on nervously, waving his hands in the air, surprisingly animated for a man sitting. "Is that this will be a whole lot easier for everyone concerned if you would just tell us something!"

At his last word his gestures become violent as he shakes his hands at me, as though to accentuate the already obvious meaning of his bold words. I grimace and roll my head away, biting the teeth in the back of my jaw together. What could the fool _possibly_ think, suggesting that any supposed way I could make anything 'easier' in their company. And yet, I know that saying anything would be a futile attempt. This human listens not even to his superiors in the city.

I catch sight of Beckett, previously bent over several papers that could be reports, results, or even notes. I cannot tell. The doctor glances over at McKay, who has begun talking despite the absence of a captive audience, and rolls his eyes, shaking his head and leaning his chin on his fist. I can safely assume that the doctor finds McKay;s methods as ineffective as I do. He must be under strick orders not to drive the scientists from his infirmary.

"Listen," the second man – Zelenka, I recall – interrupts McKay. "You may not want to admit it, but your anatomy is now unmistakably human, and-"

"And you're now in the same boat as us," McKay interrupts with no small amount of smugness. Zelenka snorts and crosses his arms in annoyance. T he former does not notice, caught up as he is in his own tangent. "Ergo, by helping us out, you'd only be helping yourself. I mean, if a Wraith comes to you and he's hungry, what do you think is going to happen? I mean, unless you have some kind of death wish…"

My head snaps around harshly and I glare at them, almost feeling the savage fire that burns behind my eyes. What could they possibly know about life, death, or what my desires in such matters are! When could this McKay recall being captured and experimented upon? When was his entire sense of self ripped from his being and dangled each day before his eyes through the words of his enemies?

I believe I might very well be developing a death wish, in spile of hose small hopes I so desperately cling to. Zelenka catches onto my sudden change in tempermament and seeks to calm me, speaking in a gentle voice.

"Michael, perhaps you might feel better about this if you spoke to our psychologist," he urges hopefully. "I mean, at first you thing she could never help, but she's soother the anxieties of many Atlantis personnel."

"Right," McKay snorts in disbelief. "Like she helped me and Cadman." Zelenka shoots him a scathing glare, but as ever, McKay chooses not to acknowledge it. "Seriously, all Heightmeyer did was make everything words and need I remind you of what almost happened?"

"This is a different situation," Zelenka insists, turning his attention back to me. "My point is, if you let her help you, and you help us, it could all turn out better in the end."

I sneer, clenching my fists. I am growing weary of these futile attempts to turn me human, and that weariness and frustration spur a terrible rage.

"Better!" I demand, jerking violently at my restraints. Both men jump. McKay succeeds in knocking his chair completely over. "This is _better! _Were I to transform you into a Wraith, I doubt you would be so grateful! Your attempts to change what I am will only succeed in increasing my pleasure at your inescapable deaths!"

From across the room, Beckett throws down his papers and jumps out of his chair, waving at the two scientists to leave.

"Go," he commands with the authority of a man who knows his domain. McKay is dumbstruck.

"But-" he stammers, but the doctor waves his hand to silence them.

"Go on, now," he insists. "He's impossible to get to when he loses his temper."

I snarl in protest, baring my teeth in challenge to the doctor. The scientists hesitate, but are eventually herded out like the cattle they truly are. Wearily, but frustrated, Beckett turns to me.

"Don't you ever get tired of losing your temper?" he demands angrily. I sneer and raise my chin, unwilling to abandon the superior airs that I, as a Wraith, have the right to possess.

"What you have done to me-" I snarl, but the doctor interrupts.

"What we have done is n abhorration that will bring every Wraith down upon is in a fury of Biblical proportions," Beckett exclaims, half repeating my own words. "I've got it, it's clear! But if you can't keep yourself from shouting it each and every time someone says something you dislike even a wee bit, I'm gong to have to put you back on the sedatives."

I cock my head and open my hands in challenge, smirking hatefully. Beckett seems taken aback; I am amused by his boldness and his own timidness toward it.

"Don't think I won't do it, you know!" he insists, rolling his hands into rists and leaning on the bed. We stare each other down for a few moments, and I am suddenly struck by the unnate pride that, despite his seemingly gentle nature, is an oddly dominant trait in his spirit. Beckett turns away suddenly, storming back tot he counter where his papers lay, emanating an ire that he is unable to release. My eyes follow him intently.

"Why don't you?" I demand. The doctor turns to glance at me, his frustration ebbing away as pity seeps into his features. Pity! The sight of it all but renews my previous nausea.

"because there are better ways to live," he answers softly. My body tenses suddenly, unexpectedly. I am filled with a strange sense of being lost; alone even amongst this throng of humans. One of whom is even moved to show me pity in the face of racial hatred.

I cannot, will not admit it aloud, but these feelings frighten me.

"Fool!" I snarl offsensively, trying to battle these feelings. Beckett turns and tries to focus once more on his papers, but even I can see the lack of focus in his features. I shout out angrily, verbally attacking him for what he has done to me, threatening him, mocking him. And yet no matter how I challenge, how I jibe him, the doctor does not face me.

Just outside the door, I see the guards turn, gripping their weapons almost instinctively. But without any true sign of danger from me, they cannot attack. And Beckett, in turn, has come to ignore my completely.

Growling in irritation, I pound my head back into the lumpy pillow, gnashing my teeth and clenching my fists in a poor attempt to relieve myself of this pent-up energy, The sting in my hand is noticeably present once again, and I glance down to see that, in my wild movements, the needle has begun to detach itself from my hand. In response, I ball a fist. It stings more. At least now I can focus my frustration at a new target/

Neither scientist bothers to return that day, and no further attempt is made on my mental health. This pleases me somewhat. For now, I prefer the heavy silence permeated only by the sound of Beckett shifting his papers. It allows me the comfort of being separate, uninvolved with them. And, in that seed of doubt that I struggle to contain, it allows me the comfort of being able to remind myself again and again of what I truly am.

Humans do not interact with a Wraith, therefore they do not interact with me.


	6. Day Six

Author's Note: Forgive my long absence! I haven't got a good excuse, so I'm not going to waste it on you. As of now, though, I'm going to seriously try to write better to make up for it. Previous chapters were written quickly and not edited at all. From here on, I'll try to pay some better attention to what I write.

Day Six:

Beckett has been ignoring me all day. Perhaps he thinks I do not notice it, the way he averts his eyes each time I glance over at him, the way he always faces away, burying himself in his work. Is it because I angered him yesterday? I doubt it. The doctor has patience in him still; I have not yet torn through it. Perhaps it is because, when he sees this wretched human that was once a wraith, he feels the same twisting guilt in his gut that I have wished upon him. Is it that he cannot look upon his own creation?

Take a good look, doctor. This is entirely your fault.

I press my head back against the pillow, hating the feeling of this shorn hair as it brushed the hospital cloth. How can these Lanteans tolerate the feeling of light-headedness? It seems that only the females seem to have the proper idea in mind, but many of them cut their hair short like the men. Unbidden, a growl echoes from the deep reaches of my throat.

Beckett starts at my sound and turns to glance at me. I peer closely and see him swallow with difficulty before turning back to his papers. Something twists inside my chest, and I want to bark out at him in anger, but that will do me no good.

"Tell me, human," I drawl, trying to catch his attention. "Would you be permitted to perform such experiments on your homeworld?"

Beckett stiffens noticeably. A content, almost gleeful feeling overcomes me.

"Can you only commit such crimes because you are away from your home?" I ask, spurred on by the pleasure of having found a weakness. "Or did they send you here so that you could do this without fear of punishment? Are they even aware of me, or do you plan to actually pass me off as a human?"

Beckett's hand grips his pen tightly, and even from my vantage point, I can see it bending under the doctor's frustration. Good. Now he knows what I have felt. For a moment, I almost believe Beckett is going to turn around and do something. His ire is certainly great enough. Unfortunately, it takes him only a moment to regain control over his emotions and he manages to damper his anger.

I lean back on the pillows, closing my eyes and clenching my fists. These human nails dig into weak flesh, causing me pain I should not know. How fragile this body is.

A low growl rolls unbidden up my throat. It is becoming steadily more infuriating with each passing moment to be trapped in this place. A horrible feeling of helplessness overwhelms me; a foreign feeling, if nothing else.

The pain from the initial transformation has at last subsided, and in a strange way, I am worse for it. I have nothing to divert my attentions, which wander aimlessly and miserably while I remain strapped to this bed. For physical pain, there is release in meditation. For boredom, there is nothing but the slow crawl of time as I wait anxiously for each moment to pass.

Consciousness escapes me less and less, and I am forced wide awake more often than ever. Without the 'visitors', as the Lanteans who have seen me call themselves, I am left with no entertainment.

Even Dr. Beckett has lost my interest, for he buries himself so into his work that I cannot draw his attention. I am beginning to wonder what it would really be to see this man lose his well-leashed temper.

I turn my wrists in my restraints idly, knowing that I cannot free myself, and turn to glance at the guards outside my room. They stand still as always, perfect living statues. I wonder what it would be like to stand on these feeble human legs; I have not so much as sat up since the night I was captured. How often can they lose their balance when moving with so little muscle?

I wonder how quickly I could adapt if I was given the opportunity, but it will probably never be so. If the situation escalates as I expect it will, this room and this bed and I shall all become very used to each other before the Atlanteans finally kill me once their experiment is complete.

What purpose could this possibly serve, turning me human? A thousand possibilities flood my mind, enough to have given me a headache several days ago. Will they send me to the Wraith as a demonstration of their power? Do they wish to bring in my kin one by one and change them as they have me? That cannot be, there are too many of us.

The guards give me no signs, and I turn away from them, too, frustrated as I fix my gaze on the dull ceiling.

Nostalgia takes me. I loathe this place of metal and stone, this floating city of death and stillness and heat. I long to return to my kin; to our living, breathing ships, devoid of this nauseating heat. I wish to feel movement beneath me, and to wake on a lush, rich planet; not the endless oceans. I have not seen the water, but knowing it is there fills my mind with thoughts of drowning.

But there is no mental link to pass my worries into, no kin to shred them to pieces. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to find some sense of familiarity. I have never sought it in the past, but now, I need it to survive.

There is a Wraith ship nearby, there must be. I must warn them of the dangers of these humans, call them to me, free myself from this prison. I cannot die here forgotten and alone.

I reach out, trying to seize the threads of my mental bond to my kin. They are far, too far to communicate, but if I can only latch on long enough to feel them. My mind brushes threads of comfort, reaching out and attempting to seize them, to sink into the link with my kin.

I have them. I know it, they are near. Cool halls pulsing with life surround me for a moment…

The image is shattered, the link broken. I start with a gasp, my eyes flying open, terrified.

I am limited to this feeble body, incapable of even reaching my kin. I choke on my own breath, my heart thumping sporadically. For the first time in my long existence, I am utterly alone.

Beckett turns to glance at me, his dark brows furrowing in concern. I swallow, my whole body beginning to tremble with anxiety.

"Are you all right?" his words are muffled and distant. I cannot respond, staring ahead as the doctor hurried to one of the needles in my arms and checks the monitors. He mumbles something I do not bother to hear, and in a moment, he is gone.

Now, mentally and physically, I am alone. It is the first time I recall ever feeling true fear. I am almost relieved when Beckett returns with a familiar needle, and I close my eyes, biting my jaw as the sedative is pumped into my body.

As sleep begins to overtake me, I wonder if I will ever see myself as what I have become, or if I will ever truly return to what I was.

With the last vestiges of my consciousness, my mind summons the image of the one human who, in this entire base, felt different. Felt…

Familiar.

I want to see her again.

Sorry for the late update. My Michael plushie has already threatened to feed on me, anyway, so I finally updated. I suppose I got discouraged because Michael wasn't getting as many reviews with the last chapter as I'd hoped, but I'm back!

Also, my muse died, so any requests or advice would be much appreciated!

R&R, people.


	7. Day Seven

Author's Note: I am so happy to say that I have officially been given a Steve Plushie to accompany my Michael plushie. Of course, the two of them tend to team up and threaten me when it comes to writing, so maybe I'll get them done faster. And a special thanks to Seanit! She/he (I don't know, but I'm assuming female simply because I'm female) gives some of the best advice! And also Emergencyfan, who has agreed to beta for me. It's astounding the mistakes I made without even realizing it, and I'm so grateful to her for going through the pain of picking them out for me.

On an additional note, I am now posting this fic and soon another fic (centering around Michael and an Original Character) on The latter story does have spoilers for Misbegotten, but it's an AU and therefore has different events. For anyone who's interested.

This is a chapter I was really looking forward to writing, because there was a clip of it in the show, giving me a lot more to build off of. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis or the character Michael. But if he's taken off the air, I will steal him.

Day 7:

My feelings of unease have grown steadily stronger since yesterday. Each time Beckett drops a pen, I wince; each time there is a shift in the light, I flinch. The slightest change in temperature causes my skin to prickle with discomfort. I try to focus my mind, but it wanders more and more with each passing moment.

The doctor seems to notice as he comes to my bedside, brows furrowed in concern.

"Michael, can you tell me what's bothering you?"

My stomach rolls with nausea and I choke it down, turning to glare at him.

"Do not call me that, human!" I spit, clenching my hands into fists. Beckett lingers for a moment, uncertain whether or not to leave me be. At last, he surrenders and returns to his table, jotting down several quick notes.

A radio next to him crackles to life and a female voice speaks.

"Carson? Is it okay for me to come in?"

Beckett turns to glance at me a moment before picking up the radio and speaking into it.

"Sure, but I warn you. He doesn't seem to be doing so well today."

"Understood."

The door on the far end of the room swishes open, and out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a tall, proud woman in a crimson shirt. Her hair is short and dark, her eyes half lidded, and she carries herself with a commanding grace. I cannot doubt who she is.

She stops at my bedside and looks down upon me with eyes the color of rich earth, her lips never daring to smile as the other female did. Beckett brings her a stool and she sits on it, her eyes never leaving my face. I turn away, not daring to meet her gaze. Though I do not respect any human, I feel compelled not to challenge this woman.

"How are you feeling, Michael?" she asks, her voice dripping with false concern. I sneer, a low growl rumbling up my throat in warning. She nods, seeming to understand me well enough to change the subject.

"I know you're upset about what we did to you," she says, leaning forward and lacing her fingers together. "It's understandable. But think of it as a new option for life. You are the first to ever have the opportunity to look at this war from both points of view."

"This is your idea of some sort of grand opportunity?" I snarl. She seems momentarily taken aback by my words, but I press on. "How many points of view have you forced upon yourself? Or do you speak with optimism in order to protect those who truly commit crimes under you."

Her eyes flick to Beckett, and I catch a moment of contact between them before she breaks it off, staring back at me.

"I'm afraid I don't-"

"You are their Queen, are you not?" I insist. "Therefore you assume responsibility for your underlings." I glance at Beckett. "And their actions."

"I'm afraid we don't use the term 'Queen', Michael." Her voice is mildly indignant but level still.

The brightness of the room increases slightly, barely a fluctuation in the power, but I have to fight the urge to wince. To show weakness in front of a Queen of any species would surely mean trouble. Instead, I half lid my eyes to block out some of the light.

"You do not deny it, then," I accuse harshly. The Queen's eyes harden, the light of her jaw clenching in some emotion. Could it be fear, irritation?

"It is the responsibility of the leader to act in the best interest of his or her people," she said firmly. "As it is also the leader's responsibility to answer for any problem he or she could not prevent." Her words sounded schooled and rehearsed.

"Am I a problem then?" I ask. "No, because I would have been terminated by now if I was."

"Our intent is not to kill you, Michael," she insists. I sneer at the name.

"But it is also not to allow me to go free," I snap. "I doubt you were unaware of my capture. Tell me, did you give the order, or did you simply look the other way until I was here?"

Her face is a mask of stone, unreadable. A heat rises up in my chest and I snarl.

"Until I was _this!_"

"Being human is not such a bad thing," she replies calmly, folding thin, fragile hands in her lap.

I tear my eyes from her face and turn to stare up at the ceiling, but the light becomes too bright and I am forced to close my eyes. A sharp pain has begun to throb between my temples, and I swallow thickly, trying not to focus on it.

"So being a Wraith is so terrible?" I ask. The Queen does not respond and I let out a silent bark of dry laughter. "If what you say is true, you kidnapped me and experimented on me out of compassion."

I open my eyes and turn a glare in her direction. The light is dimming now, and I can hardly make out her features, but I only need a vague outline to direct my hatred.

"I doubt that was your reasoning behind all of this. Tell me honestly why you have done this to me."

"No threats?" she says, wry amusement in her voice. "I can just tell you without fear of a hive ship coming down on me?"

I almost answer her, but decide against it. To force her into a position where she might feel less powerful would make her less willing to tell me what I wish to know. For a time she makes no response, staring at me as though I am some subject for study.

"Do you know how the Wraith were created?" she asks. When I do not respond, she goes on. "There is a parasite called the Iratus bug. They fed on humans, and later took on characteristics of their food. The Wraith evolved from them. Dr. Beckett developed a retrovirus to suppress the Iratus bug inside of you, and allow you to become completely human. That's what you've been injected with every day. The retrovirus."

The heat in my chest intensifies and a low, guttural growl rumbles from my throat.

"So there is something wrong with us?" I snap bitterly. "That we should be changed because it is wrong to be a Wraith?"

"It is better for others, yes."

"But not for me!" I spit. "You think you can change what I am to benefit you, hiding behind so-called good intentions. You name me and send in your people every day to try and sway my mind, because you are the same as your arrogant ancestors."

Her face hardens further and she rises from the stool. My eyes follow her.

"You think you are gods."

"God doesn't fight wars, Michael," she says icily. "He doesn't have to. We do what we think is right."

I want to respond, but the nausea intensifies, and I feel a cramp seizing my stomach. I wince, my eyes sliding out of focus as I try to fight it down, but my stomach begins to heave. I choke, eyes widening as my body fights to retch, despite my empty stomach. A thin coat of perspiration coats my skin, chilling me uncomfortably as I begin to tremble.

The Queen backs away and Beckett rushes to my side, shouting something I cannot discern. An awful ringing has filled my ears, but I swallow, fighting to maintain control over my body, human or not.

"Medical staff to Isolation room." Beckett's voice sounds muffled and far away as he casts orders into his radio. "Elizabeth, you'd better go."

"Carson, what-"

"I was afraid of this. His body's rejecting the retrovirus, it isn't enough to maintain the transformation."

"What does that mean?" she asks as she is hurried out of the room.

"If he survives, he'll change back."

I hitch a breath, struggling to breathe as my lungs seem to contract in my chest. My stomach heaves again, a burning sensation tearing up my throat.

"Michael, please," Beckett cries, but I can no longer see him. My once trembling form now begins to shake violently, out of my control, and convulses. A wrenching pain tears through my gut and I cry out, my voice deepening as fire creeps up my throat.

"Release me!" I yell, writhing on the bed, struggling to free my hands from the tethers before I lose complete control. Beckett speaks softly, trying to soothe me, but his booming voice only heightens my pain.

The door flies open on the other side of the room and a team of nurses and doctors rush in with a cart of needles. Beckett gestures wildly and grabs one of them.

I howl in pain and fury, but I cannot control my body any longer.

I can't let them continue. If there is even a chance that I could return to what I am, I would risk death for it.

The sharp bite of a needle stings my arm and I scream. Fire drips into my blood as before, traveling to every part of my body, causing my internal organs to jerk and writhe as their forms shift. My mind becomes a foggy mess, and though I know this is wrong, I can no longer fight it.

Control returns to my body, and I struggle against my tethers for a brief time until, spent, I fall back into the pillows, gasping for breath. A cool relief washes over my body as the pain subsides and I gulp in air, drinking it as though it is the source of my comfort.

As the ringing subsides, the murmur of voices is the first thing I hear. I close my eyes, furrowing my brows as I try to discern the words.

"…worked. The drug…experimental…"

"…only hope…safe….moment…"

Something soft and wet brushes my forehead and I jerk, my eyes flying open and searching the room blindly.

"…worry… Can't see…" Beckett's voice sounded weary and pleased all at once.

I feel the wetness against my forehead again, cool comfort wiping away the sweat. I sigh, closing my eyes and leaning back into the pillow as my senses slowly return. The sponge is removed from my face and I gasp, sudden heat seeming to overcome me. But it is soon back, cooler and freshly soaked.

I barely register the sedative as I feel my consciousness ebbing away, settling into comfortable sleep, the cool touch of the sponge reminding me of home.

o-o-o

_I lay on my bed of animal pelts, drifting off to sleep, staring up at the organic ceiling of my quarters. I had not fed for some time, and the hunger was becoming annoying. But the competition between the Wraith is making our hunting grounds less and less plentiful. I see our young and watch as they are butchered in attempts to feed, but we can hardly afford to train them with Runners any longer. After all, creating one of them would be to create a potential meal for another Hive ship when one of our own could feed._

_The chilling air of the ship is refreshing after the heat of the planet below and the sting of another failed mission. We were to capture humans, feed our kin. But once again, a team of those cursed Lanteans was there to ensure another night of starving for us. They even killed one of our own._

_I cannot say I lament his death too terribly. I did not know him well, and one less Wraith means one less being needing to feed. The Queen herself had said it. Since the death of the Caretaker, it had been the attitude of all those who had awoken._

_Do not mourn the dead; his going may provide another meal for you._

_Even mating was steadily becoming a frowned-upon practice. Each child meant another hungry creature, another inexperienced fighter, another death for the Atlanteans to learn from._

_I snort and roll over, forcing my eyes shut. Would it never end?_

o-o-o

"Elizabeth, it's not your fault. The rejection began long before you arrived, I just didn't see it."

"I don't know, Carson. I can't help feeling that by upsetting him, I caused it."

"Well, it turned out all right in the end. I would have preferred a more comfortable situation in which to administer the drug, but it worked all the same."

A pause.

"Look at him. He doesn't seem to have a bit of Wraith left in him since this morning."

"I'm worried about the effects. The retrovirus does nothing more than change him for a short period of time. The drug, though, could have untold side effects."

"Like what?"

"Vomiting, insomnia, amnesia. There's no way to tell."

"Perhaps we could use it to our advantage."

"I don't know, Elizabeth. If we're going to turn this into a weapon…"

I stir, moaning softly, trying to cling to the dream I had had, but it was like catching water. The memory faded, and I could hardly recall what it had been about.

"He's waking up," the male voice says softly. "Maybe you'd better go."

"I understand."

I moan softly, shaking my head. I open my eyes to see a blurred figure in white holding a syringe. The figure brings the syringe to a long, thin tube, and though I can't quite focus, I see him pressing the plunger down.

My mind grows foggier and I sigh, slipping away.


	8. Day Eight

A/N: I'm sorry I've been gone so long, but I still live! I know it's getting a bit redundant, his basic sitting around all day, but that's really what it would have been like, neh? Well, this chapter is a bit of a change, for anyone who was hoping for one. Thanks to Seanit and Queen of the Red Skittle for the inspiration for this chapter, and giving me a reason not to cut to chapter ten. Though what I'm doing for chapters nine and eleven, I don't have a clear picture.

Also, I have recently discovered where I am posting this same story, but with better editing. I may write several AU Michael fics, but odds are, they'll be on that site. For anyone who wants to check it out, I still go under Port Of Seas there.

Disclaimer: SGA and her characters do not belong to me, I just fantasize about them.

Chapter 8: Day 8

_The human's eyes are wide and filled with a terror I have never seen. Instinct roars through my mind, the gnawing hunger tearing at me even as I stand, one hand grasping his threadbare tunic tightly._

_I had been told again and again that the first feeding was the only difficult one I would ever know. The senior wraith had mentioned a brief moment of pity when the humans were finally in their grasps, in which they questioned themselves. They said it happened with many races, be they beast or human._

_I find myself caught in that very limbo they described, the seconds inching by so slowly I cannot count them. The human stares at me, his chest heaving with stuttering gasps, sweat trickling off his forehead from anxiety or the exertion of running so hard in a futile attempt to evade me. He is so different from us; his skin is leathery and brown, his hair dark as only a Queen or an infant Wraith might know._

_I cannot place why I hesitate, my hand trembling as I fight to hold back, fight to feed, fight to make a decision. I had expected uncertainty with my first human, but never had I anticipated it would be this aggravating._

_What if I let him go, said that he had managed to escape? None of the others would know… but if they found out, I would be all but banished by my Queen for weakness. Pity was not a part of Wraith culture, which was perhaps why it was so unbearable now that I felt it._

_But if I didn't feed on him now, when would my next meal come? I was an adolescent, too old to go on feeding on solid food, which was slowly ceasing to sustain me. And that was only assuming I would be given solid food upon failing. More than likely, I would be left hungry, and I would never be permitted to feed upon the humans kept in stasis; the first live human had to be fed upon from a true hunt._

_My eyes lock on the human's, and for long enough, I forget my mind and instinct takes over. My hand plunges forward, locking onto his chest. He chokes and stiffens as I dig my claws in. A pleasant rushing sensation washed over me. I can feel strength tightening my muscles, life flowing through my body. I shut my eyes, my mouth opening in the ecstasy of the moment._

_Then, without warning, it all stops. I open my eyes, suddenly aware that my hands now clutched an aged corpse, withered and decrepit. The human eyes, so different from my own, has glazed over, the dark hair turned white._

_Numbly, I released the husk and watched it fall to the ground in a heap. The wind, smelling of sweet pine and spring flowers, blows in from the woods, reminding me of my home world. I cock my head, unable to break my gaze from the corpse, wondering why I had felt pity for it at all._

o-o-o-o

The only thing I can note is that the world is dark behind my closed lids. I try not to think anything, clinging to that fading memory. It is too important to lose; my first hunt. I cannot pinpoint why, but the thought of forgetting it for even a moment is unbearable.

But as I try to focus, I can already feel the memory slipping away. I can no longer recall the human's face, or the planet, and even the feeling of my first feed is fading.

My whole body begins to shake and I gasp, eyes flying open. I flinch away from the bright lights of the room, my lip twitching with discomfort. The shaking stops and I feel a weight lifted from one of my shoulders. Startled, I glance around to see a grave-faced human bent next to my bed, his blue eyes scouring my face studiously. He is familiar.

I furrow my brows, parting my lips. Dark hair, mussed from work, a stubble of a beard. His face is marked with lines of worry, his plump, muscular form draped in a white human coat. I cannot understand why I should be familiar to any human, but I feel as though I should know this one.

"Who," I mutter, my words trailing off uncertainly as I hear the unusual pitch of my voice.

"I'm sorry, Michael," he says gently. "I know you aren't feeling your best, but you have to start physical therapy today if we're to do anything with you."

Michael. My heart skips a beat nervously. Why do I know that name, and why do I loathe it so?

Slowly, memory trickled back into focus, hazy and fractured as I recall why I am here. The needles, the pain, the hours of coherence breaking through my time of sweet oblivion… My eyes widen and I struggle for breath, clenching my fists as I turn back to the doctor, hatred now burning behind my eyes.

But beneath my hatred dwells fear, for I cannot even recall this human's name. I know I should.

He begins unstrapping my wrists and ankles, and I sigh with relief at the feel of the freedom for my extremities. For a moment I lie in stupor, unable to draw a conclusion, until I ultimately realize that, for whatever purpose, I am no longer restrained.

I lurch up to a sitting position and try to climb off the bed, but the world suddenly spins before my eyes and I cannot focus. My bare feet brush the floor and I stumble.

"Hold on!" the man calls, catching me before I fall to the ground. I try to struggle against his grasp, but his hands are stronger than I would have thought. I give up, bringing one hand up to cover my eyes in an attempt to stave off the nauseous dizziness. My hands shake, my body shivers with an unfamiliar chill as sweat breaks out over my body.

"Bring a wheelchair over!"

I peel open my eyes, struggling to focus on the world around me. I can see the room in perfect clarity, but I cannot be certain of where exactly it is that I am. My only reassurance is the feeling that if they're taking me away from it, that can only be good.

I start as the man suddenly begins pulling my body upwards. Instinctively, my feet scrabble on the floor to stand, but I am quickly deposited in a low, wheeled chair. The man releases me and seizes two handles that jut out behind me.

"Just enjoy the ride, Michael," he says absently. At that moment, a radio crackles and a familiar but foreign voice comes through.

"Hey, Carson, what's with the hold-up? We've had the training room empty all morning for you."

"Give me half a minute, John," the man (Carson? Was that who he was?) replies. "He only just woke up. I'm bringing him in now."

The chair begins to move forward, and despite myself, I relax into the embrace of the chair, my back stretching pleasantly. How long has it been since I was able to sit up straight? I cannot recall, but I am sure it has been many days.

As I am wheeled through the brightly lit corridors, I feel unwelcome stares falling upon me. Men and women who cannot help but stare at me. They are certainly quick enough to glance away when I return their stares. I know what they have done to me; it is not difficult to remember. It is not in human nature to pass up any sort of curiosity, especially not one such as me.

There truly are times when I loathe this race, though in the wake of my exhaustion, my anger has turned cold.

We come to a room, the door of which immediately slides open as we approach. Could the Ancients have the same neural interface in this city as we do aboard our Wraith ships? If so, then these Lanteans must truly be their descendents.

I am wheeled into a large room with smokey windows allowing light but no view. Despite myself, I glance around with a curiosity that I cannot recall having ever had. My eyes light on several men, all armed, gathered near the windows. One straightens and steps forward. He is younger than many, with tousled, messy hair and a haughty gait that suggests his age and his arrogance do not necessarily match.

His eyes linger on me for a moment, and I feel a heat rising within me. I hate this man. He glances back up at Carson.

"What's wrong with him?" he asks bluntly. I furrow my brows, uncertain of this man's meaning.

"Nothing so much as what I expected," Carson replies with a sigh. "I had to switch drugs on him yesterday, and the one I have now is still experimental. But at least it works."

"What's wrong that you expected?" the man pressed, not one to allow his previous question to be forgotten.

I suddenly felt Carson's eyes flick down to me and up again before he responded carefully.

"I'll tell you more about it later, Colonel Sheppard. For now, things are a little bit fuzzy for him."

Sheppard frowned and nodded curtly.

"I'll post guards by the door. Bates and Lorne will be stationed in here with you in case something happens."

"I highly doubt anything of consequence is going to happen, Colonel."

Sheppard shoots him a strange look before walking past, out the door. The armed men follow him out, save for two who stand rigid and straight, their hands on their weapons. Bates and Lorne, I assume.

Carson sighs and walks around the wheelchair, entering my sight.

"Okay, Michael," he says gently, taking my arm. "We aren't going to try anything too strenuous; just walking around for a bit to give your muscles a bit of a stretch."

He helps me to leave the embrace of the wheelchair, his larger arms easily supporting my shaking frame. I want to push him away, to snarl and threaten him as I should, but I am entirely too exhausted.

The following hours melted into a sea of obscure pain and discomfort. My muscles screamed for the strain of moving me, cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. Each time I took a wrong step, or placed too much weight on a single foot, I collapsed on the hard Ancient floor in a weary heap. I longed for the cool, comfortably, organic feel of my Hive ship, but it was not to be. All that lay in my future were coaxing words of encouragement from the doctor as he lifted me and urged me to begin anew.

It is only when the armed men begin to shift with discomfort that Beckett finally abandons his well-meant endeavors, allowing me to collapse back into the chair. Immediately I feel the sickening relaxation of my muscles, and my heart lurches, knowing that this weakness will last only too long.

I am wheeled back to the room where they keep me, my eyes only half taking in the alien sights of the Atlantean city. Beckett, with the assistance of a young nurse I do not recognize, lift me and assist me in stumbling back onto my bed. I do not protest.

Beckett turns and returns to his desk, jotting down several notes. The nurse, her wide eyes saturated with curiosity, hurries to his side and begins asking questions.

"How's his condition?"

"Still weak," the doctor replied absently, with the faintest hint of annoyance. Even I can see how foolish her question is. Human females are nothing like our own.

"Do you think you finally have the proper strain?"

"Yes."

The nurse seems to finally catch on to Beckett's terseness, her eager energy dissipating. She folds her hands demurely, returning her attention to business.

"Should I prepare the morphine?"

"No," Beckett replies quickly. "I haven't had him on it for the past few days. I want to wean him off of sedatives altogether."

"Then, his restraints-"

"I'll take care of them. Thank you, Nancy, but I have it from here."

Nancy nods, furrowing her brows in concern, but she says no more. Beckett is the chief medical officer. His word is law, and thus not to be contended with. She departs, her cheer and confusion leaving the room with her. I am left alone with the doctor, who ignores me in favor of jotting down notes.

"Why is this so important to you?" I ask, my disgustingly tenor voice rasping through the air. Beckett glances up. He is surprised that I have come out with a direct question, rather than the harsh demands he deserves. I admit, I am rather surprised myself, but still too weary to care.

"You should get some rest, Michael," he said softly. I want to protest, but sleep is tugging at my consciousness already.

"I need to know." My voice is slurred with exhaustion. Beckett sets down his clipboard and comes to my bedside peering down at me. The remorse in his sky-colored eyes twists my gut, and I wish for the strength to escape that gaze. It is the same each time I meet his eyes. The same sadness, the same pity… I hate the level it puts me on. As though I am some lower thing than him.

"We can talk tomorrow," he promises me. "For now, as your doctor, I insist you sleep."

I try to fight my weariness, but already my mind wanders to other places and other things beyond the hellish reality I now face. I hardly register the faint rub of the restraints against my bare wrists and ankles.

I am not in Atlantis. I am on the hunt.

I am not the prey. I am the predator.

I am not human. I am wraith.


	9. Day Nine

A/N: I apologize for the long…long…long…long absence. Guilt forced me to begin work once again on my AU SGA fic and my Wicked fic, and as a result, I finally got back to this one. We're getting closer to the end now! I know the chapters are getting a bit repetitive. That is intentional. I will continue until I have a full thirteen chapters at least, so stay tuned.

Disclaimer: If I owned the rights to SGA and Connor Trineer, I would tape and televise this fic. As fate would ordain it, I don't.

Chapter 9: Day 9

"Do I give you a sense of guilt?"

My voice sounds hoarse and weak even to my own ears, but my words have the desired effect upon the doctor. He stiffens and turns back to me.

"What makes you suppose that?"

I snort, turning my head aside.

"You move all your work in this room, you're by my side day and night, and despite the frailty you have inflicted upon me, you refuse to take my life."

It had been some time since I had spoken so clearly; all morning, my every attempt to speak resulted in incoherent mumblings, perhaps the result of withdrawal from whatever drugs he had recently taken from me. The surprise showed in his face, and I was pleased to let it remain there. No sense to let the human know how long it had taken me to order my muddled thoughts to form such an opinion.

The doctor runs a hand through his already mussed hair, sighing. Never before had I heard of a human who wasted so much breath with such sighs.

"Humans are not like the Wraith, Michael," the doctor replied. "When a living thing is ill or dying, we do all we can to save them."

"Even after you have caused their harm."

"Yes."

"Even when they are so near the brink of death they may never again be of use?"

"Yes."

I growl lowly. Our kind did not suffer the weak to live. No wonder humans had spread so swiftly like vermin throughout the galaxies. Their petty sympathies allowed for severe overpopulation. Other races ought to be thankful to the Wraith for being the ones to hold the flood of humanity back. Of course, the doctor would not see it that way. The utter conviction in his voice stated 'I am human, I am superior, and I am right'.

The doctor turns back to his work, and I don't bother checking to see what it might be. Certainly more injections. No surprise left.

There is nothing left.

"Would you save a creature," I ask lowly "Who does not wish to live any longer?"

The doctor fumbles in his work, but swiftly works to hide his discomfort.

"That is entirely up to the doctor," he replies. "On Earth, there is such a debate as to whether or not coma patients or suicides should be saved. I like to believe that all life is sacred enough to go on living."

We fall into silence. He wants nothing further to do with me, and I haven't the strength to say anything more to him. I relax into my bed, focusing on the bright sunlight that filters in through the windows near the ceiling which are so often blocked. Light is a beautiful thing, but I wonder how humans can tolerate so much of it. Though the Atlanteans live their lives indoors, I have overheard in common phrases the way they covet light. To them, it represents life. It is a metaphor for 'good', while dark is 'evil'. Do they not realize that light is but energy? Why do they not praise soil or water as they so light? Surely those things are just as necessary to live for a human.

Humans are idealistic creatures. Even as what I have become, I shall never understand them.

As noon passes, the light wanes like a sleepy traveler eager to be gone. I watch the rays as though I might somehow catch the gradual passage of time through them. I fade in and out of sleep, and after a time, I find my mind settled somewhere in between.

As I begin to wake from my reverie, I am aware of new and familiar voices.

"…looks kinda stoned…"

"It's the medication. He's recovering, but he's not been in a state of full wakefulness for some time. It's probably going to take him a while before he's fully acute."

"You wanna cancel physical training?"

"No. The movement seems to help him."

Their conversation holds no interest for me. I attempt to drift away again, but suddenly, there are nurses by my bedside coaxing me to sit up. I snarl and look away, but there is another on the other side.

I allow them to help me out of my bed and into the wheelchair, where I might find more peace.

As I am rolled through the halls, I hear whispers, gasps, and insults, all of which are uttered in the most hushed tone possible. Whatever meaning might be in their words, however, is lost on me.

As before, I am rolled into a training room with guards. As before, the doctor helps me out of my chair. The desire to recoil at the contact is drowned within the aching nausea that creeps up my stomach. My knees give way and I collapse against him, but the doctor kindly forces more weight back onto my feet.

Step by step, he leads me around the room. My body shakes and my muscles scream in anguish, but for all my gasping and gnashing of teeth, the doctor will not return me to my chair. Then, without any warning at all, he releases me.

Immediately, my legs buckle and I fall against the wall, clinging to a decorative outcropping for support. The world turns to black and gold spots dancing before my eyes as heat rushes to my face.

I pant for air, glancing around in dazed confusion. Distantly, I hear the doctor call.

"You're only a few yards. All you have to do is walk yourself to the chair and you can rest."

I grind my teeth together. So, I am to amuse them now? I am tempted to lay down where I am and sleep. The doctor will surely have the goodwill to return me to the infirmary…

And yet, the other with him (What is his name?), the harsh man who makes my skin crawl. He would make the entire city wait if it meant my suffering.

I pulled myself up again, trembling violently, and stumbled a few steps forward.

Then I am in the chair again. As safe as I can hope to be.

As someone takes hold of my chair, I begin to gladly release consciousness.

o-o-o

R&R please.


	10. Day Ten

A/N: I now have this story completed, and plan to update daily. Unfortunately, I can no longer reply directly to reviews on this story, but if you have a question or particularly ingenius comment, I'll message you my answer/praise.

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Never have, probably never will.

Day Ten:

My world has become a haze from which I cannot emerge. Dream and wakefulness mingle behind my eyes, throwing my perspective to oblivion. I am now consciously aware of my memories slipping away from me. My only defense against losing them is to put them out of mind. My pride, my history… I have lost so much already I begin to wonder what I was before this place.

Yet this room with its computers and needles and humans garbed in whites and greens; this room I bring to focus every waking minute. If fate ever ordains that I should be rid of this room and this torture, I would choose to let these memories fade.

The doctor attempts to remove me from my bed, insisting that physical therapy is vital to my recovery. I do not respond, and he abandons the attempt.

The humans converse with one another frequently. How strange that creatures which should be linked by mind depend so heavily on their tongues. Their words allow me a glimpse into their minds, and their perceptions of me. It seems I am all they ever speak of. Some refer to me as 'the patient', while others call me 'Michael', my given human name. These people are generally concerned, wishing my survival. Others refer to me as 'the wraith'. These are the humans who wish me dead.

Fate is cruel in denying them and me.

Needles are injected and removed. Some materials enter my body as others leave. Blurred shadows of people lean over me and speak, but their words are foreign and unpleasant. Occasionally I grimace, and they leave me be.

I see my kind, or what was once my kind, striding across the room as calmly as though there were no humans in their presence. Their faces are calm, and in moments they disappear from sight and mind. All I can recall is that I saw one, though their features and identities have vanished.

The needles bite.

The lights flash.

The voices murmur.

The visions fade.

A dull heat creeps across my chest. I wince and shift, but still it lingers. Somewhere distant, a machine beeps softly. The heat grows, burning across my chest and down my torso. Sweat begins to prickle on my skin. I growl and shut my eyes.

My hands and feet begin to burn. I swallow and grind my teeth, but my pulse steadily quickens. I gasp, panting for breath as the terrible fire engulfs me.

My stomach clenches. Unfamiliar pains rip through my chest. I moan, tossing my head from side to side, but there is no relief from it. My cropped hair is plastered to my forehead with sweat. My stiff garments stick to my body.

Someone calls my human name, but I cannot recognize the voice. I thrash against my bed, held in place by the restraints at my wrists, but every second brings with it more unendurable pain.

My head explodes in agony. I scream, flailing helplessly. Could this feeling at last be death? Is it truly so excruciating to leave the world of the living behind?

A voice cries out, but the words are lost to me. Strong hands push down against my shoulders, forcing them down as two fingers press against my neck. Then they disappear.

Almost instantly, a foreign coolness fills my arm, flowing through my veins, fighting back the fire. The hands return, pushing me back into the cushions of the bed until, at last, I collapse in blind relief. Consciousness, at long last, leaves me.


	11. Day Eleven

A/N: Some of you thought I was ending it with 10, didn't you? But Michael still dreams, and forgets.

Dislcaimer: Don't own it.

Day Eleven:

_I run through the forest, my white hair catching on stray branches, but in my pursuit I cannot care. This human… she runs before me with such grace. I have never known so exhilarating a hunt. But it will come to an end, and I will feed upon her._

_It is a shame that so fine a warrior should die, but she must. If I do not feed soon, I will become too weak to hunt again, and none of my companions are compassionate enough to take pity on me and help. They are my rivals, and would sooner see me dead than alive to prove myself superior. If I do not defeat this warrior, I will die._

_Her feet, swift as a deer's, catch on a downed log. Her descent seems to slow time, and I watch as her determined features shift to shock and then fear before she hits the ground. I do not wish to feed upon her in such a manner. Only a prisoner should die down on the ground, quaking with terror._

_But I do what I must to survive._

_o-o-o_

_I watch in fascination as an Iratus Bug crawls up the side of a tree, its sharp claws devastating the trunk. There was little cause for me to fear; only a starving bug would attack a Wraith, and we were skilled in repelling them._

_How could it be that a species such as ourselves had evolved from this creature? Grudgingly, I find myself grateful that humans existed, if only so that this ingenious animal could utilize their strengths to become something more._

_The bug takes its leave, as do I._

_o-o-o_

_Needles drawing blood and injecting a foul, burning substance in my veins. Human voices cry out while strong arms hold me down._

_They will suffer! These foreign humans will die for what they inflict upon me!_

_o-o-o_

_I breathe a sigh of relief, stepping back from my work. The bridge of the ship appears no different, but beneath the surface, improved technology hums serenely. The dying systems, last replaced a century ago, were slow, unresponsive, and utterly inferior to their ultimate replacements._

_It is rare that I can take such pride in my work, but I do now. My hive is small, true, but we are gifted with intelligence._

_My queen was pleased when she heard just how precise the ship's maneuverability would now be; just how accurate our readings would become. To be in her favor is the greatest achievement one such as myself can hope for._

_Pleased, I leave the bridge, and return to my quarters to rest._


	12. Day Twelve

Chapter Twelve: Day Twelve

_The ship shudders as yet another enemy blast connects with the outer hull. Wraith rush from one hall to the next, minding the damages or struggling to regain the offensive. I mind the servants and the prisoners, though it has never been my duty. Our servants sit, most of them silent. Trust radiates in their eyes, watching me. How certain they are that we will survive. How trusting._

_The prisoners crowd against the walls of their cell, cursing, yelling, screaming, anything they can do to alleviate their fear. The ship lurches again. How desperately I wish to return to the bridge, but I cannot afford it. Prisoners have escaped before, and valuable servants have been killed because of a fool's negligence._

_One servant, an adolescent girl raised to worship my kind, leans against the door, her eyes wide._

"_Who is attacking us?" she asked softly._

"_Enemies," I reply tersely. She nods tremulously._

"_My father died in a battle like this. Part of the ceiling fell in, and his lungs were punctured. He was a brave man, and always did what he thought was right."_

_I recalled the man. Stout, even for a human, with a bushy beard and a duckfooted gait. For all appearances, he was believed to be the ideal servant. He was fortunate to have died during a battle, for he would have been fed upon the next day after a plot was discovered to stage a rebellion amongst the servants and prisoners._

_This was his daughter, then._

"_Answer the child properly!" One of the prisoners yells. "Whose fault is it really that we're all going to die here like animals?"_

_I turn a glare at the man. He flinches, but refuses to quail under my gaze._

"_The Atlanteans," I answer calmly._

_o-o-o_

_The battle is over. Several of my comrades and I are reprimanded harshly for the ultimate failure of our new systems to win the battle. _

_My Queen senses additional turmoil within me, and without any forewarning, she plunges into my mind._

_That afternoon, the servant girl is put to death._

_o-o-o_

"_Delta frequencies are at two point nine Hertz."_

"_Which means?"_

"_He may regain consciousness soon."_

_o-o-o_

_Faces. They sway before my eyes for a moment before fading away into nothing. A young woman who carries herself like a queen. Her skin is like the earth, her face thin, her hair straight and colored like wood._

_A man with similar coloring. His hair is darker, his build more muscular. Rage burns behind his eyes ever-threatening._

_A pale man, dark haired, swaggering. His lips smile, but the expression seldom reaches his eyes._

_A man in a white coat, his face wrinkled with lines of worry, guilt, and confusion. His hands heal and kill, but his eyes are a mystery._

_A man with thin hair, large eyes, and large mouth. He wears fear and anxiety like clothing._

_A woman, tall and thin. Her strength seethe beneath the surface of a body that would appear weaker than many. She doesn't smile. She doesn't laugh. Men part before her as though she is a queen…_

_o-o-o_

_I wish to die. I wish to escape and breathe free air, if only for an instant. To drown myself in the endless ocean, to bury myself in the cool earth. I wish to feel again. I am but a living body. All else is dead._


	13. Day Thirteen

A/N: Here is is. The final chapter. I seriously doubted this chapter would ever actually come. Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! Without you, I would never have finished. (Though if you're reading this story and it's completed, feel free to review, anyway!)

Until next time.

Final Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate or any of the characters mentioned within.

Chapter Thirteen: Day Thirteen

_I am running. From what, I don't know, but if I don't stop, I will die. It is all that motivates me, all that convinces me that the burning in my lungs and the pain in my muscles are inconsequential. If I stop, I will die._

_I come to the edge of a cliff and falter, but my pursuers are still behind me. If I stop, I will die._

_I press off against the ground and plunge into the unknown._

o-o-o

I start awake, my heart caught in my throat. Immediately, I am lost. This room holds no memory for me. I glance around, catching sight of computer monitors, each holding strange readings that mean nothing to me.

I lean forward, lifting myself gently off the pillows as I continue scanning the foreign room. Where am I?

I glance down at my hands. Why do I feel such relief to see them as they are? Limp and weak, a small heart monitor clamped to one of them… how long have my hands looked like this?

I explore the room again, my eyes searching for some familiar landmark that might alleviate this cloudy confusion, but there is nothing. All I can recognize is the discomforting excitement of a new environment.

I lean back onto my bed in puzzlement, my mind eternally summoning questions I had no power to answer.

o-o-o

I glance from one face to the other, each as unfamiliar as the next. The doctor with the kind eyes, the Lieutenant Colonel with the unsmiling face, and the woman who wore authority like a second skin. Beckett, Sheppard, and Weir. I should know them, or so they tell me.

I was captured by the Wraith, they say. They say they don't know what's wrong with me, but I was brave and lucky. Why don't they say it's going to be all right, just to reassure me?

Sheppard and Weir take their leave. I watch them go, wishing I could understand just who they were supposed to be to me.

Beckett summons more doctors like himself. They run tests, taking blood samples, checking heart rate, the sort of things they claimed were part of a usual check-up. Beckett watches for a time, then disappears for a short time. When he returns, he holds a device that resembles a syringe.

He tells me I have a disease called diabetes, type one, and that I require a daily dose of insulin to remain healthy. I cannot recall any memory of insulin or diabetes, but I do not dare question him. I am obviously no master in medicine, and even if I was, I do not remember any longer.

Beckett leaves me along again. I pull one knee up, knitting my fingers behind my head as I stare at the ceiling above.

I try the puzzles in my head. Where am I? Who am I? What did the wraith do to me that none of these people can fathom? I shift position on the bed, hoping that something more comfortable could restore some broken memory, but it is of no use.

Some time later, a woman enters. She is garbed strangely compared to the others of Atlantis. Her clothes are form-fitted, but sturdy enough to serve as weak leather armor. In her gait, I recognize the demeanor of a warrior and a leader, less subtle than Weir's.

There is something else about this woman. Something sets her apart and makes her stand out in my mind, almost as though she herself could touch it.

"Hello, Michael," she said with a smile. "I am Teyla."

That voice. Why does this voice I've never heard in my life sound so right?

"You look familiar," I blurted, dropping any pretense of polite greeting. "Do I know you?"

For a glimmer of a moment, surprise lights her features. With a nod of her head, though, it is gone.

"Yes," she replies, the smile back in place as she strides to the front of my bed. "You assisted my team on a few missions."

That couldn't possibly be all. If it was, I should have remembered at least Sheppard as well.

"There's more, though," I insist, scanning her features. Something about her feels exotic and familiar… sets her apart not just from the others I have already seen, but from any human face entirely. My mind asks itself over and over "Why do I know her?", but no answer arises. "Are… are we friends?"

Her smile widens and she nods once again, pleased with my question.

"Yes."

I laugh and shake my head in disbelief. Finally, I had found someone who knew me well enough to remind me of who I was. Maybe this alien landscape would begin to feel like home.

"That's the best news I've heard all day."

Finally, someone I knew I could trust.

o-o-o

Fin


End file.
